


Balwo

by gingeringfigs



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cousin Incest, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Growing Up Together, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-04 10:17:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14590866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingeringfigs/pseuds/gingeringfigs
Summary: If Erik tried to write what he holds in his heart for T'Challa, it would take him forever and countless books. He's not even a poet. Instead, he's gonna bring T'Challa home, no matter what it takes.





	1. Chapter 1

The bonds of kindred blood that claimed  
First loyalty from me,  
Are sundered, Weeris, for your sake,  
Since you now claim my heart.

 _A Tree for Poverty: Somali Poetry & Prose,_  
_M.A. Lawrence,_  
_Nairobi, 1954._

 

* * *

 

"Hey, can I sit here?"

 

T'Challa quizzically looked up from his book at the stranger carrying a large haversack. The man gestured to the chair that had his bag on it. A quick glance around the cafe showed that it was the only available chair. Flushing in embarrassment, T'Challa grabbed the bag and put it down beside him, "Oh, of course! I'm sorry. Please do take a seat."

 

The stranger put down his haversack on the floor with a groan of relief. He rubbed his shoulder as he sat down opposite him, "Thanks. I'm totally dead on my feet. I don't think I got any sleep on the plane."

 

T'Challa observed the stranger. The man had dreadlocks neatly tied back, and he wore gold-rimmed spectacles that would have looked gaudy on most, but somehow didn't on him. A neatly trimmed beard and moustache accentuated a strong jawline. From the way his clothes draped on the other man’s body, he was rather fit. His combat boots showing signs of wear and tear coupled with the size of the haversack indicated that his muscles weren’t purely for show.

 

All in all, the stranger was appallingly attractive. T’Challa tried to think of an appropriate response but his mouth asked without his input, "Were you travelling?"

 

_Oh Bast. He just literally said moments ago he had been on a plane!_

 

The man gave him a long considering look before he grinned, revealing gold-capped incisors, "Yeah. I was away for quite some time. It's good to be back."

 

Thankful that his skin didn’t show his blush easily, T'Challa weakly smiled back, "Did you miss your home?"

 

His new tablemate nodded, "Well, not so much the place, but the people yeah?”

 

“The people?”

 

The man stifled a yawn before he replied, “Yeah. They’re what I remember most about Oakland. Especially when they’re as sweet as you."

 

T'Challa blinked, not quite sure if he had heard correctly. The man blithely continued, "Imma get coffee to wake me up before I end up on the floor. You want one?"

 

Before he could decline the offer, the stranger was already off. T'Challa leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows furrowing. That man had been  _flirting_ with him just now, right? But then again, he might be overreacting to a friendly stranger’s innocuous small-talk. Not for the first time, T’Challa wished that he wasn’t so inept at small talk.

 

The friendly nameless stranger soon returned, bearing two cups of coffee. Sitting back down, he pushed one cup towards T’Challa and said with a roguish wink,  “Hope I got your preference right.”

 

Oh. That was definitely flirting, right? Flustered and flattered at the same time, T’Challa mentally dubbed the attractive and generous stranger Mr Coffee as he took the cup with a tentative smile, “You didn’t need to get me coffee. But thank you.”

 

Mr Coffee raised his own coffee in salute, “Eh, you can thank me by telling me a bit more about yourself. Like, say, what brings you here to the airport at this early hour? You must be waiting for someone.”

 

T’Challa took a sip of the coffee and was pleasantly surprised - it was exactly how he liked it, a fragrant dark roast with a splash of milk to smooth out the sharp tang and no sugar. Impressed, he nodded, “You’re very observant indeed. I am waiting for my cousin, but he hasn’t turned up yet. With no way of contacting him, I can only hope that he will show up soon.”

 

Mr Coffee’s eyes crinkled at the corners as his lips curled into a bright smile that reminded him of how his cousin used to smile, “I’m sure he’ll show up real soon. So, what’s he like? I ain’t rushing off till I finish this coffee.”

 

T’Challa took another sip of his coffee in an attempt to hide his flusterment. Oh _no_. Mr Coffee was pushing _all_ the right buttons without even trying. With his lack of a dating life, he was far too unprepared for this situation.

 

Pulling himself together with a composure befitting of the prince he used to be, he replied with a fond smile, “My cousin is quite brilliant really. And very driven. He actually got into the United States Naval Academy and even got a full-ride scholarship to MIT, which is supposed to be an almost impossible achievement from what I understand.”

 

Mr Coffee's smile widened, his gold incisors visible, "So, that's good then?"

 

Proud of his cousin's accomplishments, T'Challa nodded, "Very. Even now, I still wonder how he managed to get a letter of recommendation from a member of Congress without my knowing. Not many know this, but you need one in order to be able to enter the Naval Academy. He wasn't even _eighteen_ yet."

 

Mr Coffee raised an eyebrow but remained silent, gesturing for him to continue.

 

T’Challa put down his cup and wistfully said, “I just wish that I could have done more for him... But he's always been fiercely independent and would have hated it if he thought that I was trying to coddle him."

 

Mr Coffee took a gulp of his coffee before commenting, "It sounds like you miss him a lot."

 

T'Challa looked down at his coffee, unconsciously wrapping his right hand around his bare left wrist. He honestly replied, "Yes, I do. I've not seen him for almost ten years, ever since he went away to Annapolis for his studies. And then, overseas to serve out his active duty obligation. So, today will be the first time in years. Emails and phone calls aren't the same and, well, video calls are far too expensive when you consider data plans."

 

"True that." Mr Coffee agreed, "I'm sure that your cousin misses you too, T'Challa."

 

T'Challa replied, "I'm glad you think so–"

 

Wait. How did the stranger know his name? He tried to recall whether he had ever told Mr Coffee his name. And hold on. There was something _familiar_ about his voice. He frowned and asked cautiously, "Have I...met you before?"

 

Mr Coffee laughed, "Oh wow! Have I really changed so much, cuz?" The stranger took off his spectacles and replied with a mischievous grin, "It's _me_ , Erik, also known as N'Jadaka, depending on which name you prefer."

 

T'Challa froze in utter shock. _Oh_. No wonder the other man had known how he liked his coffee. He slowly dropped his face in his hands. As his cheeks burned with the realisation that he had unwittingly found his grown-up cousin attractive (and still _did_ much to his dismay), he hissed, _"N'Jadaka unyana N'jobu_ , why did you not tell me who you were from the start??"

 

Unrepentant, Erik put his spectacles back on and shrugged, "I wanted to see how long it would take you to recognise me."

 

Then, he gave him a genuine smile, "I wasn't lying though. I've really missed ya."

 

T'Challa finally uncovered his face, trying to suppress a smile from breaking out, "Don't think you're out of the woods yet just because you bought me a coffee, Erik."

 

Erik chuckled, "Yeah. Dish duty or laundry for the rest of month, is it?"

 

In lieu of a reply, T'Challa rolled his eyes and stood up, picking up his bag. He primly said, " _Both."_

 

_"Oh come on!"_

 

* * *

 

It was a short trip back to their home in Oakland. It was a strange feeling to be back after being away for so long. Although he logically knew that the size of the flat hadn't changed, it somehow felt both smaller and larger at the same time.

 

Erik soon realised why. Most of the stuff that used to clutter the flat were now cleared away, freeing up more space. At the same time, he was now bigger so he was seeing things literally from a different perspective.

 

T'Challa walked down the short hallway and pushed open one of the doors. He turned to Erik and apologetically said, "While you were away, I converted your room into a work-study. With my busy work schedule, I haven't had the time to change it back."

 

His cousin bent down beside the couch and pulled a small lever hidden in the side, unfolding it into a makeshift bed.

 

"But for now, you can sleep on this until we get a proper bed for you. We can work on the rest of the room later."

 

"Aw. And here I thought, I would be sharing a bed with ya. You're breaking my heart, cuz," Erik teased as he leant against the door frame.

 

T'Challa gave him an appraising look, "I don't think we can both fit on my bed like before. You're far too big now."

 

He shouldn't say it. But he couldn't resist.

 

"That's what she said," Erik winked. T'Challa ducked his head half-laughing and half-groaning, "That was _awful_ and you should feel bad. You haven't changed at all."

 

T'Challa dusted his knees as he stood up. He stepped past Erik out of the room, turning his head to look back and said, "Make yourself at home. Unfortunately, I have to go to work now. I'll see you tonight?"

 

"A'ight. See you tonight."

 

Erik saluted and watched T'Challa leave. Once he heard the front door lock, he knocked his head back against the door and slid down to the floor, pressing his hands over his face as he slowly exhaled, “ _Fuuuuuuuuck_.”

 

Even though he had left this place for so long, his feelings for T'Challa hadn't faded at all despite the distance and time. If anything, they only had grown stronger. It wasn't helped at all by the fact that he had matured into a startlingly beautiful man.

 

So when T'Challa didn’t recognise him at the airport, he hadn't been able to resist flirting with him, trying to see how far he could push his luck.

 

But it backfired on him. On realising that he was inadvertently distressing T'Challa with his prolonged 'absence', he dropped the farce. There was no point in stretching it out further and he hated making his cousin worry needlessly.

 

Erik looked at his own left wrist where he wore a black kimoyo bracelet. He muttered, "It's been almost twenty years since that night, huh?"

 

Right. He had to stick to the plan. It was time for phase two; the hunt for Ulysses Klaue. Hopefully, with some luck, it shouldn't take as long as phase one had.

 

Activating the comms bead, he ordered in Xhosa, " _Ejo-Koriko, this is Jaguar. Commence the hunt."_

 

" _Yes, sir._ " A pause. Then the voice asked, " _So, have you made your move on Panther yet? My bet's riding on this."_

 

 _"...No comment."_ Erik said, restraining the urge to slam his head against the door. Those goddamn nosy War Dogs.

 

" _Bast! You gotta be kidding me! Not even after nine freakin' years? Come on, dude."_

 

_"It's not the right time. I can't proceed until we get Klaue."_

 

A different voice chimed in, _"Jaguar, you've already proven yourself. Why are you so adamant on getting Klaue? There is no need to get his head as a courting gift for Panther. It's old-fashioned and you know, Panther wouldn't appreciate getting blood all over the floor."_

 

Erik palmed his face, _“Ibhokhwe, I’m not even sure whether you’re kidding or being serious. I want Klaue’s head because he’s our ticket to Wakanda.”_

 

 _“You already have one though? You’ve got King Azzuri’s ring, Jaguar. Klaue is just a bonus,”_ The agent code-named Ejo-Koriko questioned.

 

“ _But not Panther. He gave up his throne and home for my sake. Without a suitable gift for the Council, he can’t go home.”_

 

 _"True that. The Council can be a bunch of dinosaur dicks. A'ight, we'll put the heat on Klaue and smoke him out,"_ Ejo-Koriko cheerfully said. Ibhokhwe spoke up, _"Jaguar, you are worthy. Don't be afraid to tell Panther your feelings."_

 

_"...We'll see. Jaguar out."_

 

Without waiting for their reply, Erik turned off the comms. He repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fist, working his jaw in silence. No, he wasn't worthy of T'Challa yet. Until the debt was repaid in full, he could and would not reveal his true feelings for T'Challa, his prince.

 

"One day," Erik murmured.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

If I set myself to write  
Of the love that holds my heart.  
A wondrous great Kitab  
Could not contain it all.

 _A Tree for Poverty: Somali Poetry & Prose_,  
M.A. Lawrence,  
Nairobi, 1954.

 

* * *

 

The nearest bus-stop was just five minutes down the road from their block. As T’Challa briskly walked in the bracing chill, his usual bus rolled up to the stop and honked. The bus driver greeted him with a cheerful, “Good morning! Eaten breakfast yet?”

 

“Yes, I have. Thank you, Uncle Chen.”

 

“ _Hao_ , _hao_! A young man like you must eat well to be healthy! Sit wherever you like!” Uncle Chen cheerfully waved him on with a gloved hand, his smiling face lined with wrinkles. T’Challa smiled back, sketching a small bow as he tapped his clipper card on the electronic card reader.

 

Once he sat down by the window, the bus rumbled away, its wheels splashing in the wet puddles left over from last night’s rain.

 

The scenery of Oakland was mostly gray and monotonous. Nevertheless, he enjoyed catching glimpses of the occasional bright mural or flashes of colour interspersed among the dull concrete blocks. As the bus drew closer to Downtown Oakland, more people boarded. At this hour, most of them were workers travelling to the business district, uniform in their monochrome suits and shoes. T’Challa empathised with the tired, rumpled few who looked like they’d much rather be in bed.

 

Soon entering Downtown Oakland, the grey blocks finally gave way to sleek glass and steel. The passengers disembarked en masse. He stayed seated as he still had a long way to go. Still, the skyscrapers against the backdrop of the San Francisco Bay in the morning sunrise was always a lovely sight. It reminded him of the harbour in Wakanda.

 

All too soon, the bus turned away from the bay, heading north towards Berkeley on Telegraph Avenue. There were at least twenty-five more stops to go. True, it was faster by train which would have shaved off ten minutes from his daily commute but T’Challa had always preferred taking the scenic route.

 

Using his imagination to strip away the clutter and focusing on the distant blue hills, he could almost see the vast and free landscape of Wakanda outside the window. Clasping his hands in his lap, he idly wondered if it was time for the white storks to migrate.

 

The bus now carried few passengers and most of them were fast asleep. In front of him, a young woman used her bag as a makeshift pillow between her head and the window, her shoulders slumped in her slumber. T’Challa winced, imagining too clearly the crick in her neck. He had tried it once before and his neck _ached_  for days after.

 

Eventually, the sparse buildings turned into the buzzing neighbourhood of Berkeley, its streets filled with young students. The street shops were already open; the bakeries and cafés drawing a steady stream of customers. Soon, the familiar sight of Phoebe A. Hearst Museum was in front of him with bright green trees flourishing on the wide path beside it. T’Challa stood up, bracing himself against the seat railing as the bus turned left.

 

Uncle Chen braked. He had finally arrived at his destination, the University of California, Berkeley, where he had worked for the past decade. Tapping out on the card reader, T’Challa said, “ _Zài jiàn! Xiè xie.”_

 

Uncle Chen smiled broadly and waved at him, “Very good! Your Mandarin is improving.”

 

T’Challa smiled and nodded in acknowledgement before he got off the bus in front of the gymnasium. The bus rolled on its way. He started walking away from the road into the campus proper, heading towards Barrows Hall where his office was.

 

Barrows Hall was not an attractive building. Blocky and grey much like the buildings back in Oakland, if albeit less grimy. Reaching for his lanyard inside his suitcase, he was about to tap it against the security scanner when a slim hand darted past him and tapped their card. He turned to look at his colleague with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Morning, Professor! I’m surprised that you’ve only just arrived. Usually, you’re already at your desk at this time,” a cheery bespectacled woman said. Her long hair was swept back in colourful beaded braids and she held a thermos in her other hand. T’Challa explained, “Good morning, Ayotola. I was actually at the airport earlier today, waiting for my cousin.”

 

Ayotola Layeni, his fellow professor in the faculty of African American studies, tilted her head, “Oh...yeah. You did say that your cousin was finishing his service soon! It has been how many years since he left Oakland?”

 

T’Challa opened the door and let her step inside first. As they walked to the lift lobby, he replied, “Almost ten. He’s…”

 

As Ayotola sipped from her thermos, her attentive eyes pinned on him, he felt his cheeks heat up as he recalled how he’d been unwittingly attracted to the handsome man N’Jadaka had become. Bast. He had not been  _prepared_ for how drastic the changes would be.

 

T’Challa lamely finished, “...grown a lot.”

 

His colleague stifled a laugh. She wiggled her eyebrows at him, “Not expecting your baby cousin to be a _big boy_ , huh?”

 

T’Challa did not deign to reply, choosing to step inside the elevator when the doors opened. Ayotola cackled as she followed him in, “Oh poor you! You must have received a shock!”

 

“Ayo, I swear, you and he would either get on well or murder each other within seconds. You two are far too alike,” he huffed as the doors closed.

 

* * *

 

Erik did not enjoy coming to this part of Oakland, but yet, here he was, standing in front of the apartment block where they used to live. He noted with mild interest that the carpark where he used to play basketball had been converted into a proper basketball court, complete with real hoops.

 

...Nice. He’d have enjoyed that when he was younger. Erik was almost tempted to do a few layups, just to see how it felt to play on a real court, but that wasn’t what he was here for. Besides, there was no ball to dribble with.

 

Shaking his head, he entered the building, bracing himself for any nasty surprises. This part of Oakland had been notorious for gang wars back in the 90s. Man, he had been a real dumb kid then, to play ball late at night in those days.

 

The inside of the building was surprisingly clean and looked well maintained. Even the lifts were included, the laminated certificate above the buttons showing that it was inspected and maintained monthly. Erik raised an eyebrow. Hoh. People were spending serious money on this building and the neighbourhood. Things had changed.

 

The bell dinged. The doors sluggishly opened to the eighth floor. The walls weren’t purple anymore. Instead, they had been painted a soft grey. Slightly put off-balance by how much the building had changed, he eyed the door at the end of the corridor. He walked towards it, his lips thinning as he remembered that night.

 

_“I, T’Challa, son of T’Chaka, hereby forsake my claim to the Golden Throne. I am staying here! I would rather be a good man, than be a King, if being King means killing your own brother, abandoning children of Wakanda… I am staying. For N’Jadaka’s sake.”_

 

_“Even if that means forfeiting your right to come home to Wakanda? You will die and be buried in foreign soil. Your name will be struck off our records as according to our laws. Even I, as King, cannot break these laws for you.”_

 

_“...Yes. That...is the least I can do… I… I have to make things right. I...will stay.”_

 

... _Fuck._  He shouldn’t have come here. Erik angrily punched the wall, snarling wordlessly.

 

“Hello! Why you going punching walls for! People are living here, you know!” A strident voice scolded. Turning in the direction of the voice, Erik was about to snap at them when he recognised her, the person he had come to see.

 

A little old lady in red, wrinkled as a prune with wispy white hair and sharp eyes. _Granny Dora_. On cue, a black cat twined about her legs and meowed. Granny Dora imperiously lifted her head and squinted, “Ah, it’s you. Erik Stevens. It’s been a while.”

 

“...Granny Dora, I thought you’d died of old age by now.” Erik said. Hesitant. Her frail appearance was deceptive; she was all iron. Her hand whipped out lightning-fast and jabbed his arm hard, striking a nerve bundle with unerring accuracy. Erik yelped as he grabbed his arm, “ _Mka_!”

 

“Insolence! Have you lost your manners when you went away, boy?” Granny Dora lectured. She pulled him into her apartment and made him sit on the sofa. A black cat promptly leapt onto his lap and made itself comfortable. The old lady bustled about her kitchen, ladling out two cups of spiced tea from a pot on the stove. She handed one cup to Erik as she sat down in a chair.

 

"Assegai likes you," Dora said. Erik looked down at the cat in his lap and glanced around the apartment seeing at least three other black cats lounging around. He wryly said, "How many cats have you got now?"

 

Dora dismissively waved her hand, "They come and go when they feel like it. Now. Erik. I heard from the network you’re going after Klaue."

 

"Yes."

 

"What happens after that?" The old woman prodded. Erik drank the spiced tea and as the taste of cardamom filled his mouth, he replied, "I'm bringing his corpse to Wakanda as tribute."

 

"What of T'Challa? Does he know? Did you not start your plan with the aim of bringing the lost prince home?"

 

Erik gritted his teeth. He had no answer.

 

Granny Dora hummed, "Figures. You might have made progress in your plan, but where it _counts_ , you're still at square one. Your plan fails no matter if you succeed in catching Klaue or getting access to Wakanda if T'Challa is not with you."

 

"I already _know_ that," Erik hissed as he carefully placed the cup down on the coffee table. Assegai shifted in his lap. He flatly said, "But I don't want to go raising false hopes and making promises I can't keep."

 

Dora laughed at him.

 

"Boy, you broke his heart when you went off to Annapolis. He was so sad when you went. But he never told you because he didn't want you to worry and to focus on your goals."

 

Erik stared at her, "What?"

 

Dora sipped her tea, "I'm not repeating myself. Boy. I'd advise you to buck up and tell T'Challa your feelings soon instead of dawdling around in places like this and talking to an old lady like me."

 

Erik's shoulders tensed. He shook his head, "No. I can't. I'm not worthy yet."

 

Dora levelled a cool gaze at him, "What is your _fear_?"

 

He grimaced, not liking where the conversation was taking. Granny Dora never pulled her punches and she despised liars. If Erik tried to avoid the question, he'd just end up getting skewered by her vibranium knitting needles. In fact, the needles were just by her chair in a little wicker basket full of colourful yarn. Assegai purred in his lap, rolling over and stretching their long limbs, demanding to be pet. Erik obliged the cat.

 

"...I don't know how T'Challa will respond to my feelings when he knows." Erik swallowed as old fears rose once more, turning him back into the skinny adolescent who decided that going away to the navy was easier than telling T'Challa, rationalising that the decision was all part of his long-term plans.

 

But he'd ended up hurting T'Challa anyway if what Granny Dora said was true. _Bast_. T'Challa was always putting Erik before himself like he always did, at his own expense.

 

" _Fuck_ , I'm a fucking dumbass."

 

Silence fell over the small flat as Erik re-evaluated his choices and plans. Two more black cats joined Assegai, demanding attention with plaintive meows. With his lap full of affectionate cats, it was hard to stay grim. Maybe that's why Granny Dora had so many black cats, ambushing her guests with felines.

 

"Okay. I'll tell T'Challa. He deserves to know," he finally breathed out. There was nothing to lose and everything to gain.

 

Granny Dora smiled.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,  
I love you simply, without problems or pride:  
I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.

 _100 Love Sonnets  
_ Pablo Neruda

* * *

 

Though it had already been a few weeks since Erik returned to Oakland, T'Challa saw surprisingly little of his cousin. Despite his military training, Erik was still not a morning person. By the time he went off to Berkeley, his cousin would still be snoozing all the way till noon or even past that. In return, T'Challa would already be asleep by the time Erik returned.

 

The weekends weren't much different either. Erik spent most of his time out, even travelling across the bay to San Francisco a few times. It was a shame, but it couldn't be helped as his cousin needed to rebuild a new social network after being away for so long. Hopefully, things would be more settled by the end of the month and he'd get to see more of him.

 

Sipping his cup of coffee, T'Challa leisurely ate his simple breakfast of soft-boiled eggs and buttered toast with marmalade. Thursdays were 'late' days; his first lecture scheduled to start at 11 am. It gave him more time to relax and savour his breakfast.

 

T'Challa heard shuffling noises from Erik's room. It seemed that Erik had woken up earlier than usual. A quick check on his phone showed that he still had an hour. How lovely. Maybe he'd get a chance to chat with him for a bit before he had to leave for work.

 

Erik's footsteps came closer and T'Challa turned to greet him, "Good mor-"

 

His younger cousin was half-naked, his brain non-helpfully said. A multitude of raised little scars covered and accentuated his well-defined muscles. Unwillingly, as if hypnotised, T’Challa’s eyes dragged along the dotted lines down to the dark treasure trail that dipped below the waistband of loose sweatpants. Those grey sweatpants hung dangerously low on narrow hips, revealing no sign of any underwear. As T'Challa faintly wondered how those physics-defying sweatpants managed to stay up, Erik yawned, his muscles flexing as he stretched.

 

_...Not expecting your baby cousin to be a big boy, huh?_

 

 _Bast._ T'Challa put down his coffee and ripped his gaze away from Erik, suddenly feeling far too warm and awake.

 

"Oh, you're still here, T? Thought you'd have left for work already," Erik sleepily said as he sauntered over to the fridge.

 

"...I don't start work till 11 am on Thursdays," T'Challa managed, trying not to look in Erik's direction as he bent over to rummage through the fridge.

 

"Niiiiice." Erik drawled, his husky and low voice making his spine tingle. "I should try waking earlier on Thursdays then. Our schedules don't sync up often enough."

 

His brain finally kicked into gear. Those scars! He whipped his head around and asked with concern, "How did you get those scars? They look...deliberate."

 

Erik shrugged, "Yeah. I made them myself. I wanted to honour the lives I took in Wakandan tradition."

 

T'Challa was torn. He was impressed, the sheer number of scars were proof of Erik's prowess, but at the same time, he was pained that his cousin had to kill. In the end, he said, “I hope you were able to get good medical care. They’re not easy to look after.”

 

His cousin tapped his chest with a grin, “I heal fast. I also made sure to keep the bandages clean and changed regularly while they were healing up. The medics would have thought I was mad since they’re not familiar with our customs.”

 

“...I’m glad they healed well.”

 

By focusing on Erik’s face, T’Challa was able to prevent his gaze from lingering on his exposed body. He sternly reminded himself that this was N’Jadaka whom he had watched over for years. This was his _baby_ _cousin_.

 

“What are your plans for today?” T’Challa changed the topic, shelving his distracted thoughts for another time. Erik leaned against the sink counter, eating an apple. He looked near obscene much to T’Challa’s internal dismay, those damnable sweatpants looking like they’d drop any moment. Maybe he should ask Erik to put on a shirt for his peace of mind?

 

_Stop, you’re getting distracted._

 

“Hmm, I was gonna make some calls to some people my contacts told me about. Apparently, they’re very keen and willing to pay serious cash to have me on contract. The only downside is that I’d have to travel often for the job.”

 

T’Challa curiously asked, “What does the job involve?”

 

Erik grinned, his gold incisors visible, “For this job, I’d be brought in as a security specialist to whip the greenhorns into shape so they can go out and work as bodyguards for filthy rich clients like, say, Stark for example.”

 

With a small wave of his hand, he elaborated, “My rep in Navy SEALs impressed quite a number of people to the point that I’ve been inundated with offers, even including some feds. That’s why I’ve been out so much lately, meeting prospective clients and assessing my options.”

 

T’Challa hummed, his brows furrowing in thought. He asked, “Will you be required to go on missions into the field? You only just returned from the Navy...”

 

“Nah.”

 

Erik tossed the apple core into the bin, then, in one stride, he easily closed the distance between them. He was immediately in his personal space, standing in between his spread legs and placing his hands on his knees as he leaned down to look him in the eye. T’Challa’s pulse quickened as he felt the sheer heat coming from his body in such close proximity. His thighs felt like they were being branded by Erik’s hands through his slacks. He looked up at his cousin with wide eyes.

 

“I ain’t going into the field unless I choose to. I’ve already completed my service and I ain’t signing off another ten years of my life doing pointless shit I don’t want to do,” Erik quietly said. He gently squeezed before stepping back, “I’ve been away for too long, don’t you think?”

 

T’Challa reached out to grab his wrist, preventing him from going too far. Erik raised a questioning eyebrow. It took him a few moments before he finally sincerely said, “Yes, you have. I have missed you dearly, N’Jadaka.”

 

Erik’s lips quirked in a wry smile, “Always the bleeding heart, T’Challa.”

 

His cousin looked like he was going to say something more. Instead, he gently pulled his hand away and handed T’Challa’s mobile to him, “You better get going. Your adoring students await.”

 

T’Challa checked the time. _Shit_. He had been too distracted by his cousin to watch the time. He only had forty minutes left and that was not including the ten minutes walk to the station and the last ten minutes to the lecture theatre from the station. He was going to be late.

 

“I’ve got to go!”

 

He hurriedly dumped the dirty plate and cup into the sink, grabbed his bag and jacket, and rushed out of the flat.

 

“Hey, wait up for a sec?” Erik called, following him to the door.

 

T’Challa stopped and turned towards Erik. What did he need?

 

“Yes?”

 

Erik quickly moved in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Before T’Challa could react, he stepped back, shooting a finger gun with a cheeky grin and wink, “See ya later.”

 

The door closed. T’Challa touched his cheek and softly smiled to himself. Erik hadn’t forgotten their little ritual after all.

 

* * *

 

The boxing gym _Delphi Academy_ was closed for the day, metal shutters at the front preventing sunlight from streaming in. Inside, the empty gym was lit by flickering fluorescent lights, harsh shadows thrown against the surfaces by hanging sandbags. Shelves full of boxing equipment lined the walls.

 

It wasn’t exactly glamorous, but the gym was the best location for their meeting. It was, after all, located in his territory and Erik knew the space like the back of his hand. It was highly unlikely that there would be any surveillance equipment in this nondescript gym.

 

He leaned against the wall as he watched the back door, waiting for his guests to arrive. To pass the time, he idly spun a tactical knife in his hand, practising various grips and stabs.

 

The door opened to admit a small group of four, three men and one woman. Erik sheathed his knife back in its holster up his sleeve and straightened up from his slouch.

 

“Itobo, Ishanta, Khanata, Zuni,” Erik greeted them as he crossed and uncrossed his arms in Wakandan tradition. The four War Dogs reciprocated in unison, “Hail, Prince N’Jadaka.”

 

Erik nodded as he analysed the quartet before him. Itobo “Ibhegi” was not to be underestimated despite his mousy appearance. With one of the sharpest minds on Earth and an encyclopedic knowledge of tactics and science, he could bring down an army by himself with the right resources and enough time like McGuyver. His weakness: poor combat ability.

 

Ishanta resembled a kindly grandfather with a full silvery beard. His jolly demeanour belied a shrewd master manipulator. Erik kept his guard up around him because even till now, he could not be quite sure if Ishanta was friend or foe. One thing to say though; Ishanta “Ibhokhwe” had a questionable sense of humour.

 

Tall and athletic with a permanent crooked grin on his face, Khanata was the textbook definition of a dandy sapeur. He wore a flamboyant deep purple suit and dress shoes with thick soles that concealed blades of vibranium. Erik had seen how Khanata easily cut through concrete with a kick. Much to his chagrin, Khanata, also known as “Ejo-Koriko” was forever hassling him over T’Challa.

 

The sole woman of the group, Zuni “Impundulu”, wore a leopard jacket over a black skin-tight dress. Her heavily beringed fingers were tipped in long red manicured nails that were weapons in their own right. Quite literally. Those nails were laced with vibranium and she wielded them with impunity. Erik’s leg twinged in phantom pain at the sight of those wicked nails.

 

He got to the point, “Has there been any update on Klaue’s whereabouts?”

 

Zuni answered first, “My people last tracked him to Amsterdam before losing his trail. That was two months ago.”

 

“Where do you think he’ll show up next?”

 

Zuni’s red lips pursed before she gestured to Itobo. Itobo pushed up his spectacles and said, “Based on what we know of Klaue’s modus operandi, he will lie low until he finds a new stock of vibranium to steal. He usually spreads chaos, and in the middle of the mess, he escapes with the vibranium and sell it off to the highest bidder.”

 

Erik raised an eyebrow, “So we keep an eye out for a new stash of vibranium just laying around for the taking and create an opportunity then?”

 

Ishanta stroked his beard and said, “My contacts in the arts and culture scene may know. Vibranium found in the markets today are often acquired through ancient Wakandan relics. Perhaps, if we were to set up a special exhibition as bait…”

 

Erik sharply grinned, “Good. Make it happen.”

 

Turning to Khanata, he said, “The exhibition has to look _attractive_. Think you can pull in some eyes and generate media attention?”

 

Khanata spread his hands, “Sure, man. We’ll get it done. We also want his head as much you do.”

 

Erik nodded. He cocked his head at Zuni, “Do you have someone who’s good enough to go undercover and infiltrate Ulysses Klaue’s circle? We need to move in closer and that will require a more reliable way of tracking his movements, so we can adjust our plans if needed.”

 

Zuni smiled and said, “Oh yes. However...Klaue is a paranoid man. If he learns that the infiltrator is a War Dog, we lose him. I’d recommend a non-Wakandan operative.”

 

Erik raised an eyebrow, “Makes sense. However, can they be trusted to do their job and not turn on us? Like you said, they’re not one of us.”

 

Zuni covered her lips to stifle a small laugh, “Ah, I will send in two operatives. They will not know each other’s identities and watch each other for any sign of betrayal while spying on Klaue and reporting back to us. If you want to prevent any loose ends, they can always be terminated after the mission.”

 

He gave her a considering look before he finally nodded, “Proceed.”

 

He wasn’t done speaking though.

 

“Klaue is a slippery and sly man who has successfully hidden from Wakanda’s _Hatut Zeraze_ for nearly twenty years. But we will get him where our brothers and sisters have failed. We, _Ezi Zasendle_ , will show Wakanda what it means to be true hunters.”

 

“Yes, your highness.” The four crossed their arms and bowed to their Prince who had defeated them all in single combat and won the right to be their leader.

 

Erik viciously smiled, his gold incisors glinting in the dim light.

 

* * *

 

T’Challa squeezed the bridge of his nose in annoyance when he saw that he couldn’t put in both his and Erik’s clothes to wash in the washing machine. On top of that, there wasn’t really any space in their flat for hanging their clothes to dry.

 

He sighed.

 

“Erik, we’ll have to go to the laundromat. You take your clothes and I’ll take my mine.”

 

“Told ya we should have just gone to the laundromat from the start,” Erik grinned at him like a Cheshire cat from the sofa where he lazily lounged. T’Challa wordlessly walked over with Erik’s clothes and dumped them on top of him. Erik’s indignant yell was music to his ears.

 

“Damn, T, you’re _mean_ ,” Erik grumbled as he plucked a shirt off his head. T’Challa chuckled, “Come on, let’s go.”

 

Erik huffed. Nevertheless, he gathered up his laundry and followed T’Challa. After they had packed the laundry into two duffle-bags, they left their flat. Knowing that it would take at least an hour for the clothes to finish washing and drying, T’Challa brought along a book to read. To his surprise, Erik brought a thick stack of documents full of daunting bureaucratese.

 

“Military lives and dies on paperwork. Thought I’d get away from this shit when I left, but nope! Turns out that the private security sector is even worse. It takes  _forever_ clearing it all, so might as well do it while waiting for our laundry,” Erik said in response to T’Challa’s quizzical look.

 

“My sympathies. Vetting theses isn't much better either,” he said with an understanding nod. T’Challa was almost glad that he was no longer a Prince if that meant not having to deal with bureaucratic paperwork.

 

Erik scoffed as he stuffed the papers into his duffle bag, “I tell ya, I’d rather take over marking your terrible students’ work than fill out these forms.”

 

“N’Jadaka.”  

 

He reproached gently.

 

Erik held up his hands, “Okay, my bad. They’re _abysmal_ students.”

 

T’Challa couldn’t stifle his startled laugh. He lightly punched Erik’s shoulder, “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

 

“Didn’t _you_ already know that?” His cousin riposted with a grin.

 

As they made their way towards the laundromat, Erik casually slung an arm around his shoulder, pulling him closer. T’Challa swallowed when he felt Erik’s body pressed against his side. Erik was like a furnace, his body heat warm enough to make T’Challa sweat. And _Bast_ _,_ those muscles were really as firm as they looked.

 

Come to think of it, he still hadn’t told Erik to put on a shirt first thing when he got out of bed. It always slipped his mind.

 

Thankfully, the walk was short and Erik seemed content to maintain the companionable silence. Entering the laundromat _Get the Funk Out_ , they immediately beelined for the washing machines. In practised unison, they began sorting their laundry into two separate piles of light and dark coloured clothes. T’Challa took the light coloured pile while Erik took the larger darker pile. They put the clothes into separate washing machines, set the machines to the correct modes and dropped in a few coins. As the machines started to fill with soapy water, they settled down on a bench to wait.

 

T’Challa opened his book to read and glanced over to see Erik already going through the forms with intense focus. Though Erik was older now, the sight was familiar. It reminded him of how he used to diligently study as a young teenager. He smiled to himself. While N’Jadaka - Erik - might have grown and changed a fair bit, some things still remained constant.

 

“Oh, hello, Mr Udaku! Did your washing machine break down again?” One of the regulars, a middle-aged Korean lady Mrs Park, greeted him, “And this is…?”

 

Erik answered for him, “Erik Stevens. Nice to meet ya. And nah, the washing machine was too small to take both our clothes.”

 

Mrs Park tittered, “Oh…! Yes, that can be a problem. How long have you known Mr Udaku?”

 

Erik grinned good-naturedly, “Ah, for several years, give or take.”

 

“Really! How come I’ve not seen you here before?” Mrs Park tried to recall if she had ever met Erik. T’Challa cut in, “If I recall correctly, you moved here about three years ago? Erik was still overseas then, serving in the Navy. He only just returned recently.”

 

Realisation dawned on Mrs Park’s face, “Oooh. So that’s why.”

 

Her eyes flicked from T’Challa to Erik and back. She crossed her arms and tapped her cheek, “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have you lived together?”

 

Mrs Park giggled.

 

They both looked at each other and tried to figure out the right answer.

 

“Hmmm, do we start from the time you…?” Erik mused.

 

T’Challa hummed, “But you’ve been away for quite a number of years, so…”

 

“...so we restart from the time I moved back in? Or nah?” Erik nudged T’Challa’s side with his elbow.

 

Mrs Park interrupted, “Oh never mind! Do forgive this old auntie for being a busybody!”

 

She waved her hand at them, “For what it’s worth, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Stevens! I hope to see you two around again soon.”

 

With that, Mrs Park toddled off to collect her laundry. Bemused, the pair watched her go and Erik commented, “...Well, that was something. You seem popular with the folks around here.”

 

“I suppose,” T’Challa said as he leaned back against the wall, flipping open his book. “I have lived here for many years, so it’s not surprising that the people have come to know me well.”

 

Erik paused in going through the papers, his knuckles going white. He turned his head to look at T’Challa who was now absorbed in his book, his eyes darting to T’Challa’s bare wrists and his own kimoyo.

 

“But, you know, I’m happy. With you back, I couldn’t ask for anything more,” T’Challa smiled as he turned the page.

 

Erik’s grip relaxed.

 

“Heh. You were saying a totally different thing just the other day.”

 

“You practically drank all of my favourite coffee!”

 

“Oh come oooon, I made up for it by buying you more.”

 

“ _...Still._ I told you to take only a sip! You just _guzzled_ it!”

 

“I thought you didn’t want any more of it because you couldn’t finish it!”

 

“You think I’d willingly give up my coffee?!”

 

Needless to say, both T’Challa and Erik never really got to finish their book and papers at the laundromat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took me longer than expected, but here you go! Many thanks to my beta, mahalshairyballs!
> 
>    
> If you enjoyed this fic, please leave a comment! ♡


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